


asleep at your feet

by formerlydf



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-20
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're drunk," Jon says, staggering under the other boy's minimal weight but awkwardly placed body, elbows flying all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	asleep at your feet

**Author's Note:**

> I completely blame [this picspam](http://maleyka.livejournal.com/210523.html). Also, I have no idea what the heck this story is, but I kind of like it.
> 
> [Originally posted [on LJ](http://formerlydf.livejournal.com/72973.html).]

first.

"You're drunk," Jon says, staggering under the other boy's minimal weight but awkwardly placed body, elbows flying all over the place.

"I'm drunk," the boy agrees complacently, nodding his head. "Very drunk."

"And lost?"

He nods again, his hair brushing against Jon's neck, right at the collar of his faded grey shirt. "Lost, too. Lost and drunk."

"So where would be not lost?" Jon wonders. The boy staggers, his glasses slipping down his nose, his feet tangled up with each other. Jon hauls him up, tries to straighten him out.

The boy looks at him, twisting his head awkwardly so he can peer into Jon's eyes. "Maybe I wanna be lost."

"Someone's going to want to know where you are," Jon says reasonably, feeling the wet grass brush his feet as he walks. He wiggles his toes in his flip flops a little, listens to the slippery squeaking of the rubber soles.

"Mm. Not like this they're not," the boy mumbles indistinctly, shifting so his face is pressed into Jon's chest again. He seems to be better at walking backwards than forwards, stumbling less but clinging more. His arms are tight around Jon's neck, and Jon feels himself being jerked forward with every clumsy step the boy takes.

"No?" Jon asks, purely out of habit since he doesn't think the boy even really knows what he's saying right now.

"Nope. Not like." He yawns into Jon's shirt, the cotton absorbing his warm breath. "Not like't."

"Well, you have to sleep somewhere, and it can't be outside."

"Buses," he mutters. "My bus. Dis'proving aura."

"Your bus will have a disapproving aura," Jon repeats, wanting to make sure he got that right. He's a little hazy, too many or not enough beers, maybe. Who says things like 'disapproving aura' when they're drunk, anyway? Anyway. The wet grass disappears as he steps onto asphalt, his feet sliding over the slippery soles of his shoes.

"'Sright," the boy says. "Y'know —" he yawns again "— been drinking with th'Academy three times, still don't know your name."

"I don't know yours either," Jon tells him, steering them towards the buses and trying to figure out which is the right one.

"Cool." The laugh vibrates into Jon's skin. "There, look." He points vaguely. "Disa — bad. See?"

The bus he pointed to is looming over them a little, Jon thinks, but it might just be the alcohol. "You can get in okay?"

"'Snot the door," the boy mutters, trying to stand on his own and staggering to the side. "I'm good, 'm good. Just if they're waiting for me."

Jon thinks absently about aliens, paranoid conspiracy theories, but the door to the bus opens and another boy looks out, his face covered by the doorway's shadow. "Yours?" Jon wonders, nudging the drunk boy forward slightly.

"Told you. Aura," the boy grumbles, and the boy in the doorway nods at Jon.

"We've been waiting," he says, and the other boy, Jon's boy, says, "Knew it."

"You —"

"No," Jon's boy, if that's what he is, says, "sleeping. Can't hear you."

He stumbles up the stairs and slinks into the bus, his shoulders slumped. "Night," he calls quietly. There's a sigh from further inside, a frustrated noise, and the sound of someone tripping their way to the nearest flat surface.

It's cold outside.

"Thanks," the boy in the doorway says, and Jon shrugs.

 

 

second.

"Hey! Hey!"

It's the boy from last night. Jon had seen him out of the corner of his eye and walked past, because really, how awkward would that be? Would it? Jon's pretty sure it would be, probably. It was embarrassing for him when he got teased the morning after his drunken blowouts, at least.

He knows better now, of course. He doesn't drink less often, but he drinks better.

He turns. "Hi."

"So thanks. For last night. I mean, taking me back to the bus. Spencer says I was pretty stupid." The boy flashes a large smile, his teeth glinting in the light, just like his glasses. He's got wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, from the smile and from the wince that's barely there.

"It was fine. You weren't stupid," Jon says. Some of the wrinkles smooth away a little.

"Well. Thanks anyway." The boy looks down, looks up, fiddles with a button. His grin, which had been fading slightly at the corners the way all smiles do after a couple seconds, returns full force. "So I still don't know your name."

"It's —"

"No!" the boy says. "Don't tell me. I'll figure it out one day. It'll be awesome."

Jon smiles, too. "Then I guess you can't tell me yours, either."

The boy shakes his head. "No."

They stand there smiling at each other for a moment. Jon's feet hurt; he's been walking all morning and he stubbed his toe on a wall. A lightbulb above their heads flickers slightly, enough to seem vaguely like a strobe light but not enough to cause a seizure.

"I'm Brendon," the boy says, holding out his hand.

Jon takes it. "Jon."

"So I have to go," Brendon says, absently swinging the hand Jon is holding. "I think. But I just wanted to say thanks; it can't have been fun hauling me all over the place."

"It was fine," Jon says again, because it's not like Brendon is the worst drunk he's ever dealt with; just sleepy, and a little cuddly. "How did things work out with the disapproving aura?"

Brendon smiles hesitantly, breathing out a laugh through his nose, which isn't precisely a laugh at all. "Oh, you know. Ryan had gone to bed, which is why I can't blame you for not recognising the bus immediately. I mean, there was only half of the aura."

"Yeah?" Jon says, and Brendon nods.

"Okay. So thanks, and I'm going to go now, before they have to start looking for me. They wouldn't like that."

"Yeah," Jon says, and Brendon gives him a goodbye smile and walks away. He ducks around a table, a person, turns a corner and is gone.

Jon shoves his hands in his pockets and feels a piece of plastic. It's a pick, he discovers when he takes it out, and taps it absently against the palm of his hand before walking to where it was that he had been going in the first place.

 

 

fifth.

The Academy Is... bus is too small, and too hot, and too loud, and probably too crowded, but nobody seems to care. Tom wanders by, a beer in both hands, giving a nod to Jon before tossing one of the beers to Mike. Mike fumbles but keeps a hold, and Jon belatedly nods back. He takes a sip of his own drink, leaning back against the wall.

Brendon is on the other side of the bus, sitting down, a bottle in his hand and his teeth digging into his lip. He stops to smile at something William says, and his lip is a little red and swollen where he bit it. He looks a little queasy.

Jon watches as Brendon casually makes his way off the bus, the bottle still clutched in his hand, his feet a little unsteady although he's trying to pretend they're not, putting them down carefully on the steps. He doesn't look at Jon as he leaves, but he says something to someone with dark hair who accosts him as he's walking out the door.

Jon takes another sip and watches the Butcher and Siska talk loudly, waving their hands around and almost hitting someone in the head. Another sip. He heads over to the door and steps outside.

The air outside of the bus is a lot colder than inside. If Jon were wearing glasses they would probably fog up, but he doesn't wear glasses.

The sound of vomiting comes from around the corner, where there are a couple bushes. It's definitely Brendon. Jon leans against the bus and takes another sip of beer.

He wanders over when the noises stop, finds Brendon crouched on the ground, his face a little clammy. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Probably." Brendon lifts up the bottle he's still holding and takes another swig, irrationally. He laughs slightly, more of a giggle than anything else, setting the bottle down on the concrete.

"Good."

Brendon drops the couple inches from a crouch to a sitting position, his chin resting on his hands resting on his knees. He looks at Jon.

"Someday, Jon Walker, I will talk to you when I am sober."

Jon sits down next to him, the cold from the pavement seeping through his jeans. "You did," he reminds Brendon. "When you told me your name? And yesterday you asked if I had a pen you could borrow and I said no."

"Other than that."

"Other than that, you're right, it's been drunken conversations and glances across crowded rooms." Jon leans back on his elbows, sits up again because it's too uncomfortable to sit that way for very long.

"Our romance is doomed to be a tragic affair like that," Brendon agrees. He makes a face, leans to the side and tries to spit the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

"Isn't that your guys' whole deal?" Jon asks as Brendon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Mm. I guess." Brendon wraps his arms around his knees and looks at Jon. "I don't think I'm built for tragedy."

"What about romance?"

"Yeah, that either." Brendon blinks slowly, his eyes staying shut for a moment too long before they flutter open again. The light is reflecting just barely off his eyes and hair, making them wink silver for a second until he shakes his head and it's gone again. "Not like in the songs, anyway."

"So how is this relationship ever going to last?" Jon asks dryly, taking another sip of beer. "I need promises of riding into the sunset."

"We can do that," Brendon says. "I don't know how to ride a horse, though."

"Me either." Jon cranes his head up. He thinks he can make out Orion's Belt, the Big Dipper if that's the North Star, and not just a deceivingly bright regular one.

"Maybe we should talk tomorrow," Brendon suggests. When he tilts his head, his face is shadowed. He looks a little older this way. "Sober. It'll be awesome."

"Yeah, sure," Jon says, because what can it hurt. "You should probably go back to your bus now, though. Go to sleep."

Brendon makes a face, twisting up the corner of his mouth and wrinkling his nose. He looks absurd. "Not awesome."

"No," Jon agrees.

"They say they smell it when I walk in, you know?" Brendon asks, twisting his head so he can looks at the sky instead of Jon. "I guess I'm tired. I think I'm easy to convince when I'm drunk."

"Maybe," Jon says, putting a hand on the ground and shoving himself to his feet. "Need help getting up?"

"Maybe," Brendon says, but he pulls himself up without Jon's help anyway.

 

 

sixth.

Spencer wanders into the room, looking for his drumsticks, and hears instead Brendon's laughter. Brendon hasn't laughed too much recently, says he's tired, so Spencer peers in, ignores the beige walls in favor of the two guys sitting on the couch.

"All I'm saying is, I think it's a little overplayed," Jon Walker says. Spencer officially approved of Jon Walker a couple days ago, when they were formally introduced by Tom and he recognised Jon as the one who brought Brendon home.

"Dude, A Whole New World is a classic," Brendon insists stubbornly. His arm is draped over the back of the ugly couch, and his feet are tucked up under him. "Don't hate."

"I'm not hating, I think it's a great song. But come on, every time you mention Aladdin, that's the song that someone starts singing. I mean, there were other songs too."

"Yes," Brendon admits, "but that's like, the song. It's the magic carpet song! It's practically a defining moment!"

"I like the Genie's songs," Jon tells him. "And you will be lying if you say you don't sing along with Prince Ali every time. With the ridiculous voices, too."

Brendon laughs again, pushing his hair back absently. "Doesn't count. I sing along with all the songs."

"Hey, have either of you seen my drumsticks?" Spencer asks.

Jon shakes his head. "Sorry." Brendon shakes his head, too, a second behind. He's chewing his lip.

"Okay," Spencer says, and wanders out of the room again. Inside, he hears silence, until Jon says, "I think I have some Disney on my iPod," and Brendon says, "Hmm? Oh, cool."

 

 

eleventh.

Ryan looks a little desperate when he asks, his makeup only partially finished, and Jon is saying yes before he even really knows what he's agreeing to.

"Thanks," Ryan says, his hand flying up into his hair, tugging at a strand. He huffs, spins around, spins around again and repeats, "Thanks," before spinning for the third time and leaving the room.

Spencer nods in agreement. "We're sorry to spring this on you like this. I'm going to kick Brent's ass when he gets here." He gives Jon a smile, and then he leaves the room, too.

"You are awesome," Brendon says solemnly, but he can't keep a straight face and breaks into a laugh.

"You're not mad?" Jon asks. He rolls his head from side to side, front to back; he's been stiff all day, slept in a weird position last night.

"Yeah, kind of." Brendon shrugs. "Fuck, though, I thought they were mad at me." He smiles tersely, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. "I'm kind of relieved. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"Nah," Jon says. "I don't think so."

"Well, if I have your approval..." Brendon trails off. He laughs again.

 

 

twelfth.

"And on bass tonight we've got Jon Walker! Show him a little love, ladies and gentlemen." Brendon nods approvingly as the audience cheers, people who don't know them, didn't come for them, but are maybe being a little swayed by them anyway.

"We stole him," Brendon confides, grinning at Jon. The club has bad lighting, bright but not tasteful; now Jon is red, now green, now bright blue. "We're totally not giving him back, either."

"Sorry, man, you don't have a choice," Jon says into his microphone, and there's a moment of general amusement before the audience gets bored and they get back to playing music.

 

 

seventeenth.

"Again? Really?" Jon asks, and Ryan looks a little embarrassed, but mostly irritated. "Yeah, sure, no. I mean, yeah. I'd be happy to. I think I'm even getting a little good at the parts by now."

Ryan says, "Thanks," and Spencer says, "You're a lifesaver," and Brendon says, "We're totally keeping you one day."

 

 

twenty-eighth.

"Jon?"

"Mm." Brendon is sitting on the curb, leaning back, his legs straight out in front of him. It's night, light enough that Jon can still see where he's going, but the sky is definitely getting darker and darker by the second, minute. He can see the moon, a couple stars. "What's up?"

"Nothing."

Jon takes that as his cue to sit next to Brendon, pressing the heels of his hands against the curb. His fingers can just reach the dirt and bits of rock that always accumulate in the corner where the street meets the sidewalk.

Brendon leans his head against Jon's shoulder, and Jon asks, "You been drinking?" It's not that Brendon's only affectionate when he's drunk, but he's definitely less shy about it then. Sometimes he's a little reticent, sober.

"Nope," Brendon says, closing his eyes. His eyelashes leave long, dark shadows on his cheeks. "Not getting drunk. 'S an experiment."

"Like for the science fair?" Jon can feel Brendon's laugh vibrate against his shoulder, and he remembers the first time they met, if you can call it a meeting.

Brendon brings his hands up to his lap, stares at his palms. They're covered in small indentations from all the pebbles, the rough texture of the curb. His hands are kind of red. "Maybe."

"So what's your hypothesis?"

"If," Brendon begins, and maybe he's going for dramatic but it ends up kind of subdued, "I do not drink, then."

"Then?" Jon prompts.

Brendon shrugs. "I don't know. Bad experiment, I guess. I should start over."

Jon hums and asks, "Are you scared of them?"

"No. Only a little," Brendon says, still staring at his palms. They're regaining normal coloring, and the pebble marks are maybe going down a little. Jon can feel the exact same marks forming on his own palms, the gravel pressing in, but he doesn't move his hands. "I don't know."

"Okay," Jon says. He bumps Brendon's leg with his knee, although it's more his shin. Whatever. He can barely see the tree across the parking lot anymore; he totally could when they sat down. It gets dark fast, here.

"I take advantage of you, Jon Walker," Brendon says suddenly. He nods a little on Jon's shoulder, making Jon's shirt rasp against his skin. "I mean, I just talk at you all the time, and you just have to sit there and take it."

This is kind of true. Brendon talks often, and loudly, and sometimes you can't even hear what he's saying because he's laughing too hard. That's okay. Jon's good at listening.

"I talk sometimes," Jon says, and this is also kind of true. They have conversations. Brendon's hair is tickling his cheek, and he flexes his toes a little.

"No." Brendon brings his hands up and folds them on Jon's shoulder, resting his head on top of them. He swings his legs over Jon's, settles in.

Jon brings his right hand up from the curb, brushes it against his jeans to get the grit off his fingertips before curling his arm around Brendon's back. "When I was in high school," he says, "I was completely in love with this girl Andy. She played ice hockey, and she always got A's on her math tests but she was getting a C in English. I'm pretty sure she never knew who I was in the entire four years we went to school together."

Brendon listens.

 

 

forty-second.

"And so he invited me over to his house to study for the test, and I said okay because I was really worried about failing history, except when we get there he says he's got something better to do than history, and at this point I'm kind of backing away because, sketchy, right? And then he reaches into his pocket —" Brendon pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, although it's kind of negated by his flushed face and rampantly gesturing hands. Brendon talks with his whole body.

"And?" Jon prompts.

"And pulls out a 20-sided die." Brendon collapses backwards, laughing hysterically, and Jon can't help laughing too. There's a funny little hitch when Brendon stops laughing, like he has to inhale and exhale again after laughing so hard, and then he sits up straight again. "So that was my first — and only — experience with Dungeons and Dragons."

"Well, did you play?" Jon demands, leaning forward incrementally and grinning. "C'mon, man. Inquiring minds want to know." They're sitting cross-legged in front of each other, their knees almost brushing, sock-covered feet pressed into the faded couch.

"Yeah," Brendon says, shrugging. "That one time. But when we'd been playing for, like, forty-five minutes, I made him start quizzing me on history all through it."

Jon starts laughing again. His right foot is slipping into the crack between the cushions, and he twitches it out of the way, further beneath his thigh. "You're kidding me."

"Nope." Brendon grins at him, the tie he's going to wear for tonight's performance hanging crooked and loose around his neck. "It was like, 'You meet a demon from the 3rd rank of hell. He asks you what the Monroe Doctrine is.'" Brendon's giggle crinkles his face up. He scratches at his knee for a second.

"Oh my god," Jon says, still laughing a little. His face hurts a little from smiling. "There could — is there a market in this, do you think? Study group for geeks?"

"I don't know," Brendon says thoughtfully. "I mean, I did get a B+ on the test, so it could work."

"Hey Brendon?" someone says, and Brendon jumps. It's only Brent, though, standing a couple feet away from the couch looking at them.

"Hey Brent," Brendon says, twisting to look at him.

Jon nods. "Hey," he says, even though Brent hasn't acknowledged him. He's talked to Brent, a little — they've been introduced, at least — but. Jon thinks it might be a little weird for Brent, talking to the guy who's replaced him for four shows already. It's a little weird for Jon, too.

Brent nods absently, looks at Brendon. "Hey, Bren, do you know where Spencer and Ryan are?"

Brendon chews his lip a little. "They went out to get some food," he says finally, eyes flicking down to the couch, the ugly carpet with the suspicious stains. "Taco Bell, I think? Or maybe pizza. You could call."

"I don't think they took their phones with them," Brent says, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Brendon frowns. "Didn't they?" he asks, and then says, "Oh. Um, maybe they didn't. Yeah. Check the Taco Bell."

"Thanks." Brent turns around and walks off, his shoes thudding along the ground, kicking absently at a stray piece of lint, a wadded-up ball of paper.

"So," Brendon says, turning back to Jon. "What was your first experience with Dungeons and Dragons? Don't think you're getting out of this."

 

 

fiftieth.

"You're drunk." They're inside the Academy bus this time, pressed together on the couch, Brendon curling into Jon's side. Jon's arms are wrapped around Brendon absently; it's almost habit by this point, maybe. He's getting elbowed repeatedly on his other side by William, who has very pointy elbows and a tendency to gesticulate wildly when he is both drunk and excited about something he is rambling about.

"No," Brendon corrects. "Not drunk. Lightly tipsy."

"Drunk."

"If I was really drunk I wouldn't be able to form understandable sentences," Brendon says, absently biting Jon's shoulder. It's covered by his shirt, though, so Brendon gets a mouthful of cotton.

"You're biting me," Jon points out. He doesn't let go, though. "Also, you have a weird ability to speak in complete sentences when you're drunk."

"Mm," Brendon says. "Maybe."

"And then you get tired," Jon continues, because he's only had one beer so far and can still think pretty clearly. "And fall asleep."

"Mm," Brendon says. "Alcohol poisoning."

"Drunk," Jon repeats. He stands up, one of his flip flops almost coming off as he does. He manages to keep it on his foot and pulls Brendon up by the elbows, letting him snuggle into his chest again.

"Okay," Brendon agrees. "Can I go home now?"

"That's where we're going," Jon says. It's true; he's already started steering the two of them off the bus, amidst the laughter of the people who've noticed. Jon has become the one who takes care of Brendon when he's drunk.

"Don't you take advantage of that boy, Jon Walker!" he hears William call, and Tom hoots, but then he and Brendon are outside.

"Aura?" Brendon wonders sleepily, and Jon nods.

"Disapproving aura, right. I think I know which bus is yours by now, dude." He trudges along the asphalt, pebbles skittering under his feet, bouncing away as he walks. Brendon has his arms hooked around Jon's neck, and he's trying his best not to step on Jon's toes as he walks backwards.

"Drunk," Brendon repeats, wrapping his arms a little more tightly. He's slumping a little, and Jon's arm goes around Brendon's waist to help keep him upright and not drag on Jon's neck.

"Thought you weren't doing this anymore?" Jon asks, his words going down into Brendon's shoulder, neck. He hitches up the arm around Brendon's waist and accidentally pushes up the shirt a little, his hands finding the bare skin of Brendon's stomach. He's warm.

"Tried. Didn't matter. Experiment didn't work." Brendon hums a little, his lips pursed and almost kissing Jon's chest. Jon almost trips over his foot bcause Brendon doesn't move it in time.

"You should talk to them," Jon suggests, almost absently because he doesn't know if Brendon's going to remember this tomorrow. They're close to the Panic bus, just a couple feet and some white lines away.

"Tomorrow," Brendon says, because he's persuadable when he's like this. "Sober."

"Home," Jon says. He hauls Brendon up the stairs, opens the door. "In."

Ryan and Spencer aren't waiting up. They don't, anymore. The bus is full of stuff scattered all over the place, CDs, books, newspapers, the occasional empty wrapper.

"You going?" Brendon asks, leaning against the doorframe for support.

"Yeah. You need to sleep."

"Okay," Brendon agrees, with a sleepy half-smile. His hair is almost dark enough to be invisible in the pitch-black bus. He has to look up at Jon to meet his eyes, one hand still resting on Jon's shoulder. "Have fun."

Jon nods and backs away, staying at the bottom of the stairs to make sure Brendon gets in okay. When the door shuts, he walks away.

 

 

fifty-sixth.

"You've got to be kidding me," Spencer says with a disbelieving laugh.

"Not at all." Jon shakes his head. His hair's a little greasy today; Mike stole the shower before he could get in, so he just didn't bother. He hooks his thumb in the pocket of his jeans. "That's not even all of it."

There's a thump, and Brendon sort of trips into the room, his hands held out in front of him preemptively but he manages to catch himself before he actually falls.

"Oh, sorry," he says, blushing slightly. "Spaz. Sorry." He moves to leave, but Spencer says, "No, dude, come in, you've got to hear about Mike and Bill's feud."

"What?" Brendon asks, the corners of his mouth quirking up hesitantly. "Yeah, okay."

Spencer smiles at him, and Brendon sits down, folding his hands over Jon's shoulder and leaning to look at Spencer behind Jon's head. "Are you the newest convert to the Jon Walker awesomeness fanclub?"

"Apparently," Spencer says, and Jon can feel Brendon relaxing next to him. He's guessing they talked.

"So, okay. Feud," Brendon says. "Are these actual shenanigans we're talking about?" His voice is going straight onto Jon, his breath making the small hairs at the back of Jon's neck flutter. His nose is almost pressing into Jon's hairline, right by his earlobe.

"Actual shenanigans," Jon declares, and feels Brendon grin.

 

 

sixty-fourth.

"Are you drunk, Jon Walker?" Jon can hear Brendon's voice, but the only thing he can see is the lights on the ceiling of the bus. There are little haloes of light around them, faintly violet. When Jon twitches his gaze away he sees blue-ish purple circles, green ones when he blinks.

"Not really," he says, and is pretty sure he's being honest. He can see Brendon's chest now; he's wearing a black hoodie, one that was probably made for girls, and his arms are crossed. There's no aura of disapproval, though, so Jon will probably be spared a lecture.

"Hmm." Brendon doesn't sound convinced. His arms uncross; one of his hands stretches out to just in front of Jon's face, the other dropping to rest at his side. Jon stares at the outstretched hand for a second.

"What?" he asks finally. Brendon's elbow bends slightly, and he shakes his hand for emphasis.

"Come on," he says. "I'm stealing you for the night."

Jon grabs his hand and lets Brendon try to pull him up. He helps, pushing himself off the couch, and stumbles over an empty can on the floor. "Okay."

Nobody notices much as they trip out the door; Tom is in a corner, hunched over, working on something, and William is working on getting completely wasted, and everyone else is just buzzing around trying not to pay attention to anything. The Butcher makes a joke. Everyone laughs.

"You're kinda like me," Brendon says once they make it outside, sounding like he's not sure if he's allowed to laugh or not, maybe. "We're bad drunks."

It's really bright, here. The moon is full and there are neon lights everywhere, making things that might normally seem ominous at night — trees, looming buildings, signposts — seem scary only in a cartoon sort of way. Jon focuses on his feet and not wherever it is that Brendon is taking him, just putting one in front of the other, Brendon sliding under his arm to help support him. He's bad at it — doesn't have Jon's experience.

"I'm not," Jon protests muzzily. He puts his foot down wrong, scrapes his toe against the ground. "Fuck."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Jon shakes out his foot, keeps on moving. "Supposedly I'm fun. When I'm drunk. I do it a lot."

"Not tonight. You're drunk drunk," Brendon says. Jon curls his arm around Brendon's neck, trying not to hang too much. There's a crushed-out cigarette on the ground just in front of him. He steps over it. "We get sad when we're drunk drunk. And tired."

"Meh," Jon mutters. "Bill'n Tom. Fight."

"What about?" Brendon asks, like he's listening, not just humoring the drunk guy. Brendon didn't drink tonight, hasn't in a couple days.

"I don't know," Jon sighs. "Tom didn't tell. Me, didn't tell me."

"Sucks."

"Yeah." Brendon's hoodie is very soft. It's warm, too. Brendon pulls Jon up the steps to the Panic! bus, fumbles the door open. Jon asks, "You taking advantage of me?"

Brendon laughs, into air and not Jon, for a change, but Jon can feel it vibrate through Brendon's chest. "Absolutely," he says, and then, "No. We're going to sleep."

"Have a bed," Jon points out muzzily. "Back there."

"I," Brendon says, "do not trust you to sleep if you go back there. I was informed that you only got three hours of sleep last night, and very probably the night before that as well. You're sleeping."

"Why'd someone tell y'that?" Jon asks through a yawn, not protesting as Brendon effortlessly navigates through the crap on the floor. Shoes, shoes, a backpack bulging curiously, a book that feels more like a textbook to Jon's toe.

"I asked." Brendon pushes Jon down onto a bunk, bends down to take off both their shoes. "Besides, you let me sleep on you the other day. Actually, you made me sleep. I'm returning the favor."

"Shh," Spencer says from a top bunk. "Shut up."

"I'm doing a vital service for someone in need, Smith," Brendon tells him, but he shuts up anyway, just looking up at Jon and laughing silently from his position on the floor. Jon kicks his shoe off the rest of the way and Brendon stands up, shoving Jon into the bed and pulling the covers up. "Go to sleep," he orders, and moves as if to walk away.

"What, now you're leaving?" Jon whispers as quietly as he can. He can't see Brendon's face in the darkness.

"Oh," Brendon says after a pause. "I just thought, you know —"

"Shut up," Jon murmurs. "Like you've got problems cuddling." Brendon climbs in beside him and Jon closes his eyes, wrapping an arm around Brendon's waist.

"I'll try not to steal the blankets," Brendon murmurs.

"I won't," Jon says, and buries his face in the back of Brendon's neck.

 

 

sixty-fifth.

When Jon opens his eyes, he's first a little disconcerted to see the confines of a bunk all around him, instead of the living room of the Academy bus, and then to see empty bed next to him, instead of a sleeping Brendon. There's a post-it on the inside of the curtain, "we've got coffee -bden" and a hastily-drawn smiley face.

He rubs his hands over his face. The inside of his mouth tastes disgusting, but at least his head feels clearer. The calluses on his fingers are rough as they scratch across his face.

He swings his legs out of the bunk, looks down to see that his shoes have been neatly lined up, pointing out like they're just waiting for him to slip them on. He does. There are voices coming from the front, along with the smell of coffee. He wanders over, gives a rueful smile.

"Hey."

"Hey," Brendon says, already grabbing a mug and pouring out a cup of coffee. "What do you want in yours?"

Spencer is sitting at the table with Ryan, both of them with mugs in their hands. Spencer's coffee is darker than Ryan's, and Jon sees a couple empty packets of creamer on the table. They're piled up on top of each other, tilting this way and that, partially torn off paper lids fluttering. The packet on top looks like it's about to fall off.

"Nothing, thanks," he says, and Brendon holds it out for him. He takes it, one hand threading through the handle and the other cupped around the round surface, and shoots a glance at Brendon.

"Jon, Brendon says you're not getting enough sleep," Spencer says, and Jon refrains from laughing. It's just that Spencer sounds so much like his mother, but Spencer is kind of all of their mothers. Apparently Jon has been adopted.

"You can stay here if you want, we're pretty chill," Ryan adds hesitantly. "I mean. I know it can get kind of loud on your bus, sometimes."

Jon takes a sip. The coffee is bitter and the grounds taste a little burned, but he kind of likes that, sometimes. His mug is white with a weird blue design on it. Ryan has a dark blue one and Spencer, one that looks like it came from a roadside waystation, bright red letters proclaiming the name of a town Jon's never heard of. Brendon's mug is plain white.

"Thanks," he says, and smiles. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Ve have ways of making you sleep," Brendon says, and everyone laughs.

"What?" Brent says, wandering out of bed and into the makeshift kitchen, feet heavy on the floor. "What'd I miss?"

 

 

ninety-eighth.

"You heard."

"Yeah." Jon scuffs a toe along the floor, careful to avoid the stray staple lying only an inch or two away. The floor is wooden and smooth, old, a little discolored in spots. Jon's toe is tanned, but his toenails are a little too long.

"We were wondering if you would come to Europe with us," Brendon says. Jon is sitting down; Brendon walks up behind him, starts rubbing Jon's shoulders. He's always stiff after he sleeps on the floor.

"What are you, bribing me with massages?" Jon laughs. He rolls his shoulders a little, cracks his neck.

"Yes. If you come we will pamper and spoil you forever," Brendon deadpans, his thumbs moving in circles over Jon's shoulderblades. "Plus sexual favors."

"How could I turn down an offer like that?" Jon asks with a wry smile. He stops smiling after a second, but the corner of his mouth stays quirked up. His toe starts circling in time with Brendon's thumbs. "No, of course I will." He reaches up and back, grabs Brendon's wrist. "I'm sorry."

When he twists around to look, Brendon's mouth is quivering, trying to force itself into a smile but failing. He leans forward, rests his forehead on Jon's. "Once it stopped being relieving it starts sucking," he murmurs.

Jon smoothes his eyes closed with a thumb. "I'm sorry," he says again, pushing a strand of Brendon's hair back. They stay like that for a second.

"You wouldn't believe what the Butcher did this morning," Jon says finally, and Brendon says, "Oh yeah?"

 

 

one hundred second.

Backstage is hot, and sweaty, and Jon is a little bit nauseous. He stands, moving to the wall, leaning against it for a second, standing up straight again.

Ryan says, "It'll be fine," but he's worrying the hem of his shirt, his face a little pale under the makeup. There are swirls, lots of different colors, blending into each other like a sunset, kind of. He spent ages on it in front of the mirror, redoing another line every time his hand shook.

Spencer says, "It's just like playing in the US, right?" and taps his drumsticks against his thigh. He's leaning against the wall too, hips cocked, fingers and drumsticks beating time steadily.

Brendon says, "I think I'm still a little jetlagged," and drapes himself over Jon's back, yawning loudly. He moves his head so he can whisper, "You'll be totally awesome," into Jon's ear before pulling off, grinning at the world in general. With a quiet sound, the lightbulb over their heads dims noticeably.

"It's going to be awesome," he tells everyone loudly, and shoots Jon a smile.

 

 

one hundred forty-fifth.

"I think European roads are different from American ones," Brendon says absently. His shoes are neatly placed next to the sofa, and his knees are tucked up to his chest.

"I think European roads are different from your mom," Jon says without thinking. Brendon laughs at him, and he blinks. "Wow, that was really bad, wasn't it."

"It kinda was," Brendon agrees. His elbow is resting on the arm of the couch. The bus is jolting slowly, vibrating a little, and whatever is outside the window is flashing by too quickly for it to be recogniseable as anything more than green.

"I'm tired."

"Yeah, you are." The bus is clean for the first time in ages, the floor cleared of all obstacles. Someone put a rainbow sticker on the wall just next to the window, and another one that says, "Good effort!" in bright, shiny letters.

"C'mere." Brendon beckons and Jon walks over, settling into the curve of Brendon's side. He's warm. Jon thinks he can hear Brendon's heart beating through his ribcage as Brendon stretches his legs out. "We should take a nap."

"I haven't taken a nap since I was nine." A signpost blurs past the window, probably in a language he doesn't understand. If he focuses his eyes on one thing for long enough, he can probably see what it is. He tracks one with his eyes; tree.

"That's okay, it's kind of like riding a bike. Come on, we're going to be out late tonight. If you don't sleep sometime, Spencer will yell."

"And we can't have that," Jon agrees with a smile. He lets Brendon maneuver him into position, blinks his eyes closed and tries to sleep. Brendon kisses him lightly on the forehead and Jon laughs.

It takes him a while to get to sleep, though, and he opens his eyes occasionally. House. Tree. Cow. Signpost. Wall. Field.

 

 

two hundred twelfth.

The bus is vibrating. Jon wanders in to what passes for a living room and sees Brendon on the couch, guitar on his lap. Ryan is at the other end. They're staring at each other.

"Play the first one again," Ryan says, and Brendon picks out a melody. Jon stands a watches for a second. There's a third sticker next to the two on the wall; this one says "Happy Birthday!" It has a cake underneath.

The carpet is a little scratchy under his bare feet, and he needs to wash his shirt.

"I liked the second one better," Brendon says, and Ryan says, "Yeah, but there's something a little off at the end."

Jon thinks about leaving, but Brendon says, "Jon!" and smiles widely. "Sit with us." There's not enough room on the couch, though, so Jon sits on a chair.

"Tell us what you think of these melodies," Ryan says, and Jon remembers, oh yeah, he's permanent now.

 

 

three hundred fifteenth.

"Pancakes. I want pancakes," Brendon declares, dragging Jon into the IHOP. It's dark inside, the floor a little sticky, the windows a little dirty. There are bright orange chairs for people to sit on when they wait and a pile of menus that's close to teetering over.

"Two?" a waitress asks, holding up two fingers, and shepherds them to a table almost without waiting for an answer. Her nametag is crooked and she's got three freckles on her left arm, right where the sleeve ends.

Jon settles into the seat, holding up his menu and flipping through. There's a brown splotch on one of the laminated pages; it says "con & eggs & pancake triple combo!!!" A kid at the table next to them is digging into her short stack with contented noises, destroying the whipped cream face on top, the maraschino cherries rolling off and to the side of the plate. Her mom is biting a fork absently.

Brendon's face is hidden by the menu, but his fingers tap out a tune on the edge, where he's holding it. There's a little spilled salt on the table; Jon sweeps it into a pile with his finger, spreads it out again. The maple syrup container has sticky streaks down the side.

"What're you thinking?" Jon asks.

"Ryan and Spencer still haven't called," Brendon says worriedly, then puts the menu down and adds, "Oh, man, you were talking about food, weren't you? Oops."

"It's cool," Jon says. He smiles reassuringly at Brendon. "It's okay. They'll be fine. Spencer's been taking care of Ryan ever since they met."

"Yeah," Brendon says, but he doesn't look happy. "I just kind of wish we could've gone, too." He presses a finger to the side of the maple syrup, pulls it away with a little effort. When he presses his finger to the table the salt sticks, and he rubs it off absently.

Jon kicks Brendon's shin lightly, just to remind him he's there. "Me, too," he says. "Really. And they'll call."

"No," Brendon says, no real inflection, just simple statement of the facts. "Spencer will call after the funeral for about five minutes, just to tell us they're okay. And he'll call us at the airport, before they get on the plane, so we can start driving to pick them up."

"It's still a call," Jon says. The mother at the neighbouring table is signaling for the check and a box, for the half-finished short stack and her own barely eaten egg whites omelet. The little girl has a smear of whipped cream right by her nose.

"Yeah." Brendon shrugs, his leg starting to jiggle under the table. He stops it, and Jon nudges him with a knee until he starts again.

"Pancakes," Jon says, and Brendon smiles at him, now.

"Well, there are so many."

"I was thinking something with chocolate chips in it," Jon says seriously. The mother leans over to wipe the whipped cream off the girl's face, and the girl picks up a cherry and pops it in her mouth, licking her fingers. "But of course, you have to watch your girlish figure. There're a couple diet options."

Brendon looks horrified. "One does not come to an IHOP for diet pancakes," he says reprovingly, frowning. "I'm appalled, Walker."

"That's not what you said last night." Jon grins. "I want chocolate chips," he repeats. "What about you?"

"Silver dollar, maybe," Brendon says, pressing his finger into the salt again. He kicks the table leg gently, just once, runs another finger along the table's edge, around its corner.

"Because they're small?" Jon prompts, smiling at him. "Like you?" The mother is signing the bill, digging a few bills out to leave as tip. The little girl is carefully placing her pancakes in the white styrofoam box.

Brendon grins back, kicks Jon's ankle. "That's not what you said last night."

 

 

three hundred eighty-ninth.

"You are a moron," Ryan states flatly. The light coming in through the cabin window is clear, sunny. A vine that somehow crept up the outside of the wall and over the glass makes a break in the light, a squiggly shadow on the floor.

"At least I'm not an anal-compulsive asshole," Brendon says through gritted teeth. His hair is sticking up all over the place and it looks a little ridiculous, but then so does Ryan, in his tight t-shirt and too-large sweatpants.

"Yeah," Jon says into the tense silence, sharing a look with Spencer, "but it could be worse." They look at him. "You could be ugly."

There's stunned silence for a moment, and then everyone breaks down laughing. Brendon even has to drop onto the floor, leaning back against the table and giggling.

"I'm so glad we kept you," he says when the laughter has mostly died down, a couple minutes later. "I told you we were going to. Didn't I?"

"Yes," Jon says.

"Obviously we should all listen to you more often," Spencer puts in, and Brendon says, "Damn straight you should."

He laughs, tugs Ryan's ankle until he's sitting on the floor too, grins at Jon.

 

 

four hundred thirty-seventh.

The studio light cuts hard against the windows and drumkit's metal edges, bounces off the piano keys. Jon plays with a music stand, pushing it down, then back up again. It squeaks faintly, a little rusty.

"Hey," Brendon says.

"Hey," Jon says. Brendon stands on his toes a little and presses a quick kiss to Jon's lips. Jon smooths a hand down his arm.

"Jon?" Ryan calls, and Jon looks at Brendon. He smiles, presses his arms a little closer to himself for warmth.

"Go play with the guitars, I know you want to."

Jon smiles, slips out of his sweatshirt, hands it to Brendon. "Don't want you to freeze to death. What would we do without our lead singer?"

"Absolutely nothing," Brendon tells him solemnly, trying to hold back a smile. "Without me you are nothing."

"Damn straight," Jon says, settling the hoodie around Brendon's shoulders when he doesn't do anything. Brendon shrugs into the sleeves. It's too large for him, maybe. Doesn't matter. "Go play with your pianos."

"Yeah," Brendon says, fingers already stroking over a keyboard. "Okay." He presses another kiss to Jon's cheek.

"Okay," Jon says, and smiles at him.


End file.
